


The Problem with Towels

by Wicked42



Series: Gwenvid Week 2018 [7]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Because it's me, F/M, Oh also a little bit of whump, bahaha who cares enjoy!, david being flustered, gwen overstepping boundaries, hot and heavy makeouts, maybe nsfw?, or is she
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42
Summary: Gwen takes a nasty tumble in the counselor's cabin, and David--fresh out of the shower, wearing just a towel--is right there with the first aid kit. And no fucking idea what he’s doing to her in the mean time.Kiiiind of nsfw...Entry #7 for Gwenvid Week!Prompt: Free Form





	The Problem with Towels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forestwater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/gifts).



Gwen staggered into the counselor’s cabin, stumbling over boots that suddenly seemed too heavy, too wide. Exhaustion weighed her shoulders, and her eyes seemed to stick shut with every blink. Distracted by the time of night, the events of the day, Gwen didn’t remember to step over that raised floorboard.

Well, not at first, anyway.

But she definitely remembered it after her boot caught on it, after her balance was lost, after she pitched forward.

Instinct took over, and she flailed to catch something before she face-planted. Her fingers gripped the ripped leather of the rolling chair, but it wasn’t stable by any means, and her weight just toppled it over her. The armrest slammed into her back and the corner of the desk cut her face and her elbow smacked against the wooden floor and pain jolted through her, a white-hot iron of _holy OWW_.

When all was said and done, Gwen was buried underneath the chair and some papers, a few magazines littering the space around her, nose pressed against the wooden desk.

It wasn’t majestic.

Things rarely were, with her.

Of course, she barely had a chance to groan before the door to David’s adjoining room slammed open, and out bounded the redhead himself.

He was wrapped in just a towel, hair dripping, his ridiculous white boy skin glistening like a fucking vampire. The white noise of a shower abandoned could barely be heard over his cacophony of panic.

“Oh, _gosh_ , Gwen! That looked nasty. Are you all right? Shoot, you’re bleeding, let me—”

“’M fine,” she grumbled, cheeks coloring in embarrassment as she shoved the chair off, cradling her numb arm as she pushed into a sitting position. David righted the chair—a madly impressive move with just one free hand and a big, awkward piece of furniture—and knelt beside her, green eyes wide as he assessed her fully.

Under his gaze, her face warmed, and she became vividly aware of his bare chest, his toned arms, the fucking _towel_ held up by one of his pasty hands.

Jesus. A towel. That was all that stood between her and—well, _David_. And how many times had she had _that_ dream?

Granted, in the dream, she was usually relaxing _in_ her rolling chair, feet propped up, reading a steamy romance novel to get in the right mood, and David usually swaggered in with all the confidence of Hugh Jackman with his shirt off, waggling his eyebrows as he drawled, “You ready, baby?”

Her dreams weren’t usually accurate.

David’s skin had goosebumps now from the cool air, but he wasn’t paying attention. Not like she was, anyway. Instead, his thumb ran along her stinging cheek, and she felt it all the way to her toes. The throbbing pain faded as every single nerve centered on where his calloused finger touched her.

Her breath hitched.

He noticed, but didn’t draw the conclusion he should have. Instead, his finger pulled away as if burned. “Oh, shoot, sorry! Did that hurt?”

Jesus _Christ_ , she had to get a hold of herself. This wasn’t a goddamn porno. This was a Tuesday night at Camp Campbell, with her tripping over chairs and her goddamn co-worker fixing the problem. David wasn’t _flirting_ with her.

So why was all that heat rushing to her face, and warming her belly?

“Go finish your shower,” she said, voice strangled. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” David said, pursing his lips. “You sound like you’re hurting. Let me get a band-aid.”

Right. Because a _band-aid_ would fix this. Gwen stifled another groan, this one in frustration, and picked herself off the floor. This caused her to brush against David, sitting far too close considering he was _only wearing a towel_ , and once again her nerves pulsed white-hot. Gwen gnashed her teeth and sunk into her desk chair, spinning it towards the desk. Away from David.

David, who’d collected the band-aid just like he promised. It took mere seconds to crack open the first aid kit, and then he was back at her side, turning her chair to face him. He shifted the towel so the ends met at his left hip, then leaned the creases against the desk to hold it into place and free up both his hands.

Which meant _now_ the towel wasn’t being held up at all. Not really. All it’d take was one suggestive push, and it’d fall to the floor. And then she’d be on him, fingers tangled in his hair, nipping his lower lip, pressing flush against him, maybe taking his shoulders to push _him_ into the chair instead, and something about straddling his naked ass on her cushions made her shudder, made her mind go blank of everything but _that image_ , and—

“Gosh, Gwen, did you hurt something else?” David’s hand stilled inches from the cut on her cheek, his grip tightening on the gauze he was using to dab off the blood. She was biting her lips, eyes squinched shut as her imagination took off, but from his perspective, it must look like she was in an awful lot of pain.

She wasn’t. Not anymore. Her arm was still tingly from the elbow hit, but otherwise, she’d just be sore tomorrow.

If he was privy to her thoughts, he’d be sore tomorrow too.  

But he wasn’t, because he wasn’t a goddamn mind reader. And he wasn’t _into_ her, not like that. They’d kissed exactly twice, once when she was drunk and thought it’d be funny, and a second time the next morning when she was sober and mortified, but that was weeks ago. It wasn’t his fault that door had been opened, and now she obsessed about _what if_ s all fucking day.

A fucking day.

Hmm. That was an idea.

_Christ, Gwen. Keep it in your pants._

“David, I’m _fine_ ,” she snapped, even though the towel had inched a little lower and his hipbone was even whiter than the rest of him, like smooth milk, and she couldn’t stop wondering if it would taste as soft as it looked.

But he was leaning closer, _closer_ , so close she could smell him, that weird, somehow _intoxicatingly sexy_ mix of pine and firewood. Usually sweat mingled in there, salty in a way that made her want to run her tongue along his collarbone, nip the shell of his ear, but he’d just showered.

His shower was still running. The water would be cold by now.

And apparently, that was exactly what _she_ needed. A cold shower. Maybe a visit with her special vibrating friend in the darkness of tonight… once David was asleep.

If he ever fell asleep.

If he ever _backed off_ , because with the utmost care, he smoothed a band-aid over her cut, then smiled softly. But his voice was firm as he said, “There. Does that feel better?” And his green eyes were sharp with concern, more concern than anyone ever showed, _anyone_ , not even her own goddamn mother after she broke her ankle in the second grade. And his thumb rubbed over the band-aid to make sure it’d stay, and it felt like a lover’s caress

and she just _couldn’t help it_.

She grabbed his face and smashed her lips to his.

He squeaked in surprise, but she swallowed the sound. This wasn’t like the sloppy, drunken kiss outside Muffin Tops. This wasn’t like the chaste, _I care about you_ kiss he bestowed on her the next morning, just to get things back to normal.

This was like sex, raw and passionate and hungry. His nose pressed against the band-aid, but the tinge of pain only added to the _aliveness_ of right here, right now. She nipped his lower lip, and he gasped against her, his whole body trembling under her mercy. His leg wedged between hers for balance, his hand going to the armrest at her side, but she could feel his body, feel when his—well, _hello_ there—pressed against her thigh, hot and insistent. Gwen grinned against him and rolled her hips and his strangled moan was _everything_.

Jesus, she should have done this _years_ ago.

Well, right up until David wrenched away, breathing as if he’d just scaled Sleepy Peak Peak, face flushed red as his hair, freckles shining in the dim light. “G-Gwen, what—”

Shit. Shit shit _shit_ she hadn’t asked him or begged him or anything, and those celibate weeks between their last kiss and now was an indication of everything he felt for her, which was to say, nothing at all. And now he was staring at her, towel slipping ever lower, chest inches from hers, hand shaking as it braced against the armrest, looking utterly bewildered.

Hugh Jackman, he was not.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. Heat flushed up her collar, and it wasn’t for the reason she wanted. Her clit throbbed, but she didn’t dare squirm to relieve the pressure, didn’t dare move until he figured out just how he’d react to this. To her basically accosting him in their place of work.

Jesus, she was on _fire_ tonight, wasn’t she?

“I’m sorry,” she said again, quickly, before he could swear off their friendship forever. Could they still be CBFLs if one of them perpetually wanted to rip that little towel off the other one? “I just—you came in with just a towel, and it’s been a long day, and I thought it’d be damn amazing to blow off some steam, and—”

“Blow off steam?” David said, sounding hurt. He put distance between them, gripping the towel as he padded to the windows to close the curtains—oh _god_ she hadn’t even thought about _that_ —, as he turned to face her again in the privacy of her moment of humiliation. “Gwen, I—” he drew a ragged breath, and it was only mildly pleasing to see physical evidence of how she turned him on. But that didn’t override the disappoint on his face, the way his shoulders hunched against her stare. Like she was raping him from fifteen feet away. “I’m—ah, gosh, I’m flattered, but—but I don’t think I’m the right person to ‘blow off steam’ with—”

Maybe the floor could just swallow her whole right fucking now. Was that a thing? She always thought Camp Campbell was built on a Hellmouth, straight from Buffy, with all her personal demons gushing through. So if that was right—and it seemed pretty damn accurate tonight—then couldn’t it just open a rift at her feet and _eat her_?

She sunk into the chair, ready to die. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, shame coloring her words.

He forced a smile, and that hurt most of all. David _never_ had to force a smile. Not even when Max was at his nastiest, not even when Bonquisha dumped him, not even when he realized she was applying for other jobs. David didn’t force smiles. “I’m… well, I’m going to go change. Can—we talk afterwards?”

Asking permission for a damn conversation. She should take a page from his book.

Mortified, she nodded, but the second he ducked back into the bathroom, she was gone. Out the door, around the counselor’s cabin, into the overgrowth of the wild forest just beyond Camp Campbell. She could have gone to the pier, or the stage, or the mess hall. Hell, she could have just locked herself in her bedroom. But in that moment, all she wanted was _distance_ and _solitude_ , a private moment to cry or scream or whatever the fuck was clumping in her throat, choking her.

Of course, she’d never been very coordinated at running through the woods. Or… well, nature walks in general. Especially not ones blinded by tears, overwhelmed with emotion.

She made it maybe four steps before a tree smacked her in the forehead, sending her sprawling. Her ears rang and her head spun, and all she could think was _you goddamn deserved this, you asshole_.

But the Universe wasn’t done. Because of _course_ that’s where David found her.

His chest was heaving, panic in his eyes as he skidded to a stop beside her. “Gwen? Gwen! Are you okay?” And it was too goddamn familiar, except this time he wasn’t in a towel and she was too horrified to try anything. So when he reached for her shoulder, she moaned and rolled onto her side, away from him, away from everything.

“Go ‘way,” she said, breath hitching in self-loathing. She didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve this horrible camp, or those demon kids, or _anything_. She was barely better than an animal, acting on urges, forcing herself onto poor, innocent camp counselors who just wanted to do a good day’s work.

For a long moment, he didn’t reply. She thought maybe he’d gone back to the counselor’s cabin. Maybe he’d lock her out. She deserved that too, honestly.

But then David said, softly, “I, ah… I liked the kiss.”

She’d misheard him. Because for a second, it seemed like he said he _liked_ the kiss. And that couldn’t be right, because he’d ended it. He’d wrenched away. Put distance between them. Closed the curtains, and practically fled into the bathroom.

Tentative fingers touched her shoulder, and she flinched away from him. The ground was hard and unforgiving, and her forehead was pounding with a branch-induced headache, but she couldn’t move.

“Gwen?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled.

He chuckled, taking her shoulder and pulling her into a sitting position. Her head spun, but he didn’t release her.

Instead, his eyes drew to her forehead. He swallowed a gasp and pushed her bangs aside and that panic flared in his voice again. “Oh, gosh, Gwen, that’s a welt! Do you have a concussion? How many fingers am I holding up?” He fumbled to keep a hold on her while simultaneously displaying three fingers.

He wasn’t running away. Maybe she could salvage this after all. She swallowed past a mouth of cotton and said, “David, I didn’t mean to—I just—you’re just so _amazing_ and I didn’t really think, I just kind of—”

“Fingers, Gwen?” he cut her off.

“Three,” she mumbled.

“Good.” He squeezed her shoulders in a half-hug. He was kneeling in the dirt, wearing longer jeans for the chilly evening, and a clean flannel shirt. The same one he wore when they went to Muffin Tops.

She should _not_ be thinking about Muffin Tops. About how he sat, rigid beside her, while she drank and cheered at the women parading before them. How pale he went when she bought him a lap dance. How he tugged her outside minutes later, fleeing the woman named Chartreuse, red-faced about the idea of doing _that_ a stranger. And she’d said, “Well, we’re practically strangers!” and kissed him just to prove the point.

And how, in the morning, deep in the throes of a hangover while the sun peeked over the horizon and David handed her a cup of coffee, she muttered an apology, and he grinned and told her it wasn’t a big deal, and that he vastly preferred her to Chartreuse, and when she still seemed mortified, he bent over and pressed a fast kiss to her lips. How the sun shined in his eyes as he said, “I think we’re a bit more than strangers,” and strolled out the door, whistling that damn Camp Campbell theme song.

She shouldn’t think about the frustrated weeks following that day. How suddenly David was on her mind _all the goddamn time_ , how she started analyzing everything he said and did, how she started fantasizing about what it would be like to take that kiss further, to try a lap dance on him, to watch him get red and flustered and know she had that power, but that it was over a man who cherished her more than anyone ever should.

She shouldn’t be thinking, after what happened inside, about how she’d love to kiss him again, even now, even after she’d basically assaulted him.

“Good,” he said again, sounding distracted now.

And then he did it for her.

His lips were firm as they crashed against hers. For a long second, she fucking froze, paralyzed with the reality of what was happening because _what. Was. Happening_? But David just wound his hand through her hair and traced circles on her neck as he tilted her head to meet his, and a ripple of pleasure swept through her and then she remembered how to human and her mouth opened with a sigh.

He kissed her until they were both starved for breath, until they broke away with chests heaving and hearts thrumming. He rested his forehead against hers and stared into her eyes and said, “I’d—well, I think you’re amazing too. But… not for b-blowing off steam.”

And suddenly, she realized what that implied to him. That her panicked words meant to smooth things over had done everything _but_. That she’d basically told him she wasn’t interested in anything but his body, wasn’t interested until he strolled out of the bathroom wearing just a towel.

Like clothes were the only thing keeping her off him, not the strands of her own self-control, fraying every day since that kiss until tonight, when he smoothed that band-aid over her cheek and she _snapped_.

“David,” she whispered, his name loaded with all the admiration she had, for the man who played parent to a dozen kids, for the man who guided her through the worst anxiety attacks of her life, for the man who looked at her outside of Muffin Tops and told her she was worth something.

She smiled then, soft and slow, and his eyes flicked down, captivated by her lips. There were inches between them, but it wasn’t close enough. “I only said that because you’re so goddamn cute it’s been torture keeping my hands off you.”

He groaned, slipping a little closer to her on the cold, hard ground, eyelids fluttering as her lips captured his again, as she kissed him to convey just how true those words were.

When they broke apart again, his voice was ragged, even as she continued pressing kisses along his jawline, paying special attention to the sensitive spot below his ear. He was melting against her, and this time he wasn’t running, she was obsessed with it. “W-Would you—hnnn—like to go on a d-date with m—ooohhhh—”

Gwen stilled, and his grip tightened against her waist when she pulled back. His eyes were lidded, dazed, but the goofy smile on his face couldn’t be ignored.

Suddenly, she felt kind of embarrassed. Not humiliated, not like before. Just… tickled. She hadn’t assumed he would want to court her the old-fashioned way, with flowers and that silly lapel pin and a vest that wasn’t stained with grass and dirt. Hadn’t allowed herself to consider he’d like her that way.

Dreams about raw, passionate sex were easier to forget than dreams about a real relationship. Gwen was good at sex, but dating? Being a girlfriend? The list of shit she could fuck up _there_ was longer than the camps at Camp Campbell.

“Is—Is that a no?” David asked, suddenly looking nervous.

She could fuck up a _lot_ of things, though. Tonight was a prime example of her fucking up a quiet evening in. So what the hell, right? Live life to the fullest and all that crap.

Ignoring the sick feeling she always got when she dared to try something new, Gwen  blurted, “I’d like that.”

And the smile he gave her was better than sex.

Well, mostly. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Jeez, it's been ages since I've written anything like this, but I wanted to end Gwenvid Week with a bang. 
> 
> ... I mean, not a literal bang, because I'm a tease like that. MWAHAHA. 
> 
> But seriously, this is dedicated to the AMAZING hosts of Gwenvid Week, [Forestwater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater) and [Color-Theorist!](http://color-theorist-art.tumblr.com/) This was so much fun, and I really appreciate them putting this on for all of us!! :D 
> 
> PS: JellyBit, your fic is next on the list!! :D :D :D Expect it tomorrow night! I just had to finish Gwenvid Week before I got into the Dadvid fluff. <3


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